Yes Homo
by verticordias
Summary: Neither Jean Kirschtein or Eren Jaeger are strangers to the 'bro code' of 'no homo,' especially not when they're no longer strangers to each other. But in the midst of colourful dreams, friendship and stereotypes, two boys find double negatives do make a positive.
1. Chapter 1: Jean

[sweats nervously] I'm supposed to be on writing hiatus but I thought of this jeaneren thing this morning and now I've wrote it and I have so many ideas with jearmin too (and jeanmarco mikannie eremin god I'M SNK SHIPPING TRASH)

DEDICATED TO THE WONDERFUL VERONIKA ALSO KNOWN AS JEANEREN QUEEN I HOPE I DO YOUR DORKS JUSTICE PLEASE DON'T HATE ME IF IT SUCKS ILY

OH ALSO it'll be dual POV

And it's all a bit random but go with it? I'm just excited to write fashionable characters in art college (because I miss when I was in art college sobs)

Anywaaaay I hope those who read it enjoy it and I'll attempt updating everything I've written so far EVER when I'm done with exams that are happening IN A MONTH HOLY SHIT

Hope everybody is having a good day!

* * *

Chapter One

Eren Jaeger was the first friend I made at college.

Admittedly, I hadn't tried in that department - and by department, I mean the fashion department I was majoring in. Most of my class was too busy stabbing pins into mannequins and muttering measurements to care about in-class interaction, myself included. It also didn't help that the first class we all had together, everyone (twelve girls with pastel coloured hair and paint splattered dungarees, to be exact) assumed I would be their gay best friend.

What a mighty shame that I didn't want to be friends and I wasn't gay.

Things got problematic after that but college was a step above high school and instead of cat fights, I got the silent treatment and the occasional sympathetic/pathetic glance. Eventually, we formed a truce. Jean Kirschtein was not gay and not our best friend but if we leave him alone, he'll leave us alone. Everything worked out better that way. I worked with my earphones in so I didn't have to hear them band together over a mutual distrust over the only straight male in the department and vodka.

With all that said, it's not like I _minded_ being alone. I roomed by myself because the kid I was supposed to be sharing my confined living quarters with decided community college over the arts would suit him better. I wasn't bothered by that. The roommate that never happened could have been a stoner or worse – a _slob_. And I was totally cool with them not finding a replacement roommate. I didn't need any 3D design kid flipping through my magazines, facing the male models but looking at me, as they slurred away. And there was no way in _hell _I would room with a drama kid. High maintenance didn't even cut it.

So, yeah, I didn't mind working alone and eating alone and sleeping in an empty room over 100 miles from home alone if it meant that no one bothered me.

Like I said, it was better this way. I didn't want anything else.

Until I met Eren.

* * *

"This is bullshit," I muttered, speed walking through the corridors to catch up with the rest of my class – who didn't bother to inform me that we weren't in Stitching (and Stabbing) 101 today as usual. _Bitches can hold a grudge_. "Bullshit. Cowshit. Horseshit. Shit, shit-" I cut off my cursing as I skidded to a stop in the middle of a hallway somewhere in the architecture department with one realisation. "_Shit_, where the hell did Jessica Robinson go?"

The girl I was trailing behind was nowhere in sight and here I was, on a Monday morning, with a tape measure draped around my neck like a disgustingly thin scarf and my sketchbook full of loose scrap materials under my arm, talking to myself.

"Shit," I repeated, eyes closed and sketchbook now firmly in my hands, ready to be thrown at the nearest window of an unsuspecting design class. Doing what I loved aside, I hated college. _I hate college_.

Just as I raised my arms to fling half a semester's worth of work, someone from behind me called out. "Lost?"

I turned abruptly, ready to snap, "No shit, Sherlock" (another variation of my favourite word) but was rendered speechless by a small girl who seemed to radiate sunshine. She wore a pink floral dress with a white collar, white socks and black pumps, and smiled, like the skies weren't too grey to clash with her outfit. "Fashion have been called to the drama apartment."

So many thoughts buzzed around my head at her words. I started with the easiest to understand. "You're in fashion?"

She nodded, little blonde head bobbing in response. "Class C. I'm Historia."

"B," I replied. I hadn't seen her around before but that was probably because I didn't lift my head to look around in any of the classes we could possibly share. I shifted my sketchbook back under my arm and reached out to shake her tiny hand. "Jean."

Like most people, she repeated my name with curiosity. "Jsh-ahn?"

As nice as she seemed, it took a lot not to roll my eyes at the predictability. I responded as I usually do. "My dad is French."

"That's really cool." _It really isn't_.

"Hm."

Like all conversations I was forced to partake in, things got awkward quick. Historia smiled into the silence before she realised my eyebrow was raised expectedly and she exclaimed, "Oh! We better get going or we'll be late."

I did roll my eyes then but only when her back was to me. I couldn't fault the girl, despite her absentmindedness. After all, I would have probably failed my first semester project if she hadn't shown up. I had to remember who the real enemy was: _Jessica Robinson_.

"So," I said, falling into step beside Historia, which wasn't difficult because she had short legs, "why are we being summoned to the drama department?"

"You haven't been told?" She seemed surprised. I feigned innocence. She didn't need to know that I ignored everything that was said in class with loud music. Let her think my class hated me (which they kinda did so I wasn't being entirely untruthful.) "Well, drama is putting on a performance as part of their course – no one really knows what yet – but the college council decided that it should be a group effort."

"Group effort?" I echoed. I definitely didn't like the sound of that.

Historia, on the other hand, very much did. She clapped her hands excitedly as she told me, "They want the whole college involved! Media, graphics, 3D, etcetera, etcetera. And fashion, of course. But fashion always helps out."

"They do?" I asked weakly.

"Oh, yes! Costumes are down to us. Isn't that exciting?"

I replied again with, "Hm," which actually translated to: _hell, no._ I didn't like any department in this place, not even my own, but the drama kids had a special place in my heart, reserved for burning hatred.

See, I opted out from sitting in the canteen for lunch (because it was noisy and _not_ because I would be sitting alone and felt like a loser surrounded by so many groups of friends) but the first few weeks that I had gone in to grab myself a pizza wrap, I hadn't missed the drama tables. They were louder than anyone else, screaming and hollering like banshees at each other, until a group leader attempted order by climbing atop the tables, only to rouse them into further destruction. I wasn't one to question science but Darwin may have been wrong about evolution. It hadn't seemed to work on the drama department.

I didn't carry on the conversation with Historia but luckily I didn't need to. We reached the drama classrooms within a few minutes, finding the rest of our classes still milling about unsurely. I mustered up my nastiest glare to throw at Jessica and her friends. She tossed her lilac hair over her shoulder and I wondered if she would pull her claws out if I told her that her beehive was falling apart. _Good riddance_.

"Listen up, brats."

A deep voice silenced us but I couldn't find the source of it. When I realised I was the only one craning my neck to see, I stopped, awkwardly rubbing my neck to play off my action, and just listened. Dislike aside, I wouldn't lie and say I wasn't interested in what this was all about.

"I'm no expert on fashion and I won't pretend to be," the voice announced, his tone suggesting him to be a lecturer. I wasn't familiar with the drama teachers so it made sense. "Your teachers have agreed to start slow, just like the rest of the departments, with field experience to get you used to the environment. No designing, just measuring."

A girl – so similar in height and hair colour as Historia that I almost mistook her for my tour guide – was walking around with a hat. Her expression was bored, her clothes casual, like she was ready for a jog, not a stage. The drama teacher explained that we were all to pick a folded piece of paper from the hat, with two numbers on it. "The first number is the dressing room and the second is the actor or actress you'll be measuring – and designing for, no questions asked, if you appreciate your grades. Uneven numbers means that some of you will have to share a budding superstar." His flat voice radiated sarcasm. A few in the crowd tittered nervously. "Your chosen student is your project until the show is done. I expect you all to be concise and professional."

I opened up the paper I picked. _Room: 104, project: 5_.

"Everyone got their numbers?" Petra, my fashion teacher, called from somewhere in the mess of pierced eyebrows and ripped tights. Jessica's idea of revenge was making me look around her ridiculous hairdo. I was thankful she was too stupid to do worse.

A murmur went across the crowd in confirmation to the question, as the drama teacher directed us towards certain corridors. 104 was to the right. I set off.

It took me a minute to notice Historia was right behind me. When I looked back at her, she simply said, "I got room 104."

"Me too."

"This feels strange, doesn't it? It's all so real." She wrung her hands together nervously. "I wouldn't want to mess up when Levi's watching us."

_Room 98, 99, 100._ "Levi?"

"Head of drama. He was the one giving the instructions," Historia explained.

_101, 102, 103_. "Oh. I didn't see him."

We stopped outside room 104 and Historia smiled, a little nervously. "No one could, at the back. He's short. Really short. But no one dares laugh about it. He's meant to be a ruthless teacher."

I nodded, like I cared, which I didn't but Historia was too nice to ignore, plus she seemed to be blabbering out of nerves, more than anything else. "Shall we head in?"

She swallowed then nodded. I opened the door.

Trost College of Theatre and Arts wasn't one to do anything half-heartedly. The dressing room looked like something out of a movie. Dressing tables with mirrors surrounded by lights and table tops littered with wigs, make up and God knows what else. Racks of costumes provided obstacles in our path as we navigated around students – fashion with their outrageous styles and big boots and drama with their made up faces and light fitting but stylish clothes for stage practice – some who had already began their measuring processes as others bickered and some just wandered around, looking for their projects. Historia jumped away from a drama student who was removing their shirt so they could be measured more precisely. The girl's classmates all blinked at her before shrugging out of their clothes too. The room became a chaos of naked limbs that Historia squeaked at so much, I had to guide her around carefully.

"What number are you?" I asked, forced to practically shout in her ear for her to hear anything at all.

She did the smart thing and raised her hand in answer. _5. What are the odds, eh?_

I made some awkward gestures to show I was the same too. Her face lit up when she understood. I flushed awkwardly at her excitement, just as a girl from my class hit me in the face with her measuring tape. I almost grabbed it and pulled but then Historia was shoving me past students numbered 37, 12, 8, 49 until we found number 5, stuck to a dressing table at the furthest corner of the room, isolated from everyone else.

With no student sat in front of it.

The table itself wasn't all too different from the others in the room. The lights around the mirror were off, at least. There was a spillage of some glittery make up that I hoped to God I would never have to endure in my life. We crept closer to find a photo frame of a grinning young boy, dressed in a costume depicting him as a king, with his mother holding him from behind, her laughing eyes closed but smile identical to his, even as the chin she rested on the crown of his neck tilted his actual crown. It was one of those photographs that captured something wonderful. It was more than just a picture. Project 5 probably looked at it and remembered the weight of his mother's arms gently pressing against his shoulder and the sound of their intertwining laughter. He probably recalled the feeling of holding that toy sword up in the air, as if the victory was beyond conquering lands but much simpler and much more complicated: _happiness_. It was amazing how emotions could be preserved timelessly in a photograph.

_Not that I would know_.

"There." Historia pointed towards a label stuck to the edge of the desk, where a name was written in barely legible handwriting. The scribbly cursive spelled out: _Eren Jaeger_.

I sighed, leaning against the table. "Well, Eren Jaeger isn't here."

"Maybe he's gone to pee," she offered cheerily.

I raised my eyebrows and she shrugged and sat down delicately on the stool.

"And now we wait," I muttered under my breath, pulling the tape measure from around my neck to fiddle with it. I wondered if Levi was timing the exercise and if it would affect my grade. _Well, maybe he should be raising a better professional student than one that spills glitter in his wake._ Then I remembered that saying that thought to a teacher like Levi would not be a good idea. Staring at the name on the desk, I thought, _I'll say it to Eren Jaeger himself instead_.

Five minutes passed and our project still hadn't shown up. The dressing room had quietened down, as those finished with their task moved out to seek out further instructions or head back to class. Drama kids themselves left, not throwing a single glance our way. Maybe Eren ditched drama. Maybe he was only here when he wanted to be.

I looked back at the photo and shook my head slightly. If the little boy's face was any consolation, this Jaeger guy should want to be here all the time.

_Except right now, of course_.

Historia jumped up suddenly. "I'll go ask someone if they know where he is."

I just nodded, seeing no need in arguing with her. It wasn't like we'd be any worse off if she came back unsuccessful. As she headed out of the room, I sat down on the stool. Having analysed the photograph enough, I was left to stare back at my reflection.

I always noticed people's clothes first when I saw them. Prior to coming to art college, seeing people's grubby t-shirt and jeans combo had gotten tiring but it was even more so keeping up with the wacky styles of the students in this place. Though there were still a few grubby numbers, a lot of people actually cared about being different – so different, they all looked the same. I always saw their outfits first, platform shoes and tie-dye shirts and velvet skirts and corduroy jackets, but that was soon followed by dyed hair and facial piercings and intricate tattoos that were impressive usually (though I had seen someone with a little jumping Mario behind their ear that was a little more concerning but, hey, their body, their choices.)

I had a fashionable eye, to say the least. But I didn't want to be noticeable or ridiculous. I dressed in what I thought looked good and that today was a white shirt under a soft, knitted jumper in dark green and skinny grey plaid trousers, with some black plimsolls that curved to a point at the toes. It was smart but casual, with enough edgy style for the fashion department bitches not to eat me for breakfast. I could at least look like I belonged, even if I didn't feel like I did.

I wouldn't say I was remarkable otherwise. My long face with my nose that ended with a slight curve let my appearance down. I had an eyebrow piercing but that was as far as body modifications went at this point. I had cool-ish hair, I guess, even if both my parents hated it, but I hadn't let my undercut grow out since I was 15 and I wasn't going to start now.

_Mom is so gonna flip her shit when she sees that it's practically half a Mohawk now._

I chuckled quietly at the thought before I was struck with a slight pang of homesickness. I missed my mom but the idea of going back and visiting wasn't appealing. Not because my mom would hate my haircut (all she would do would nag a little really) but because my dad would hate _everything_.

Eighteen years were enough. I couldn't escape him entirely but I could limit how much hurt I would experience, using this distance as my defence. At least, this way, the only hurt I was subject to was about my grades through emails, which was the only thing my dad bothered with anyway and, even then, it's not like he _cared_. Everything was discredited because I had thrown my life away at _art college_-

"Shit, fuck, ow, ow, _ow!_"

I jumped at the sound of wailing that's sound neared with every passing second. Turning away from my frowning reflection, I saw the girl that resembled Historia (except less like sunshine) holding a dark haired boy by his ear as she headed this way.

A quick glance between the grinning boy in the photograph on the table and the approaching prisoner led me to believe that this was Eren Jaeger.

The girl barely saw me as she shoved the whining boy in my direction. I got up quickly but not quick enough, awkwardly catching Eren from falling on top of me and pushing him into the chair I was occupying mere seconds ago. The boy didn't even acknowledge me, peering around my hips to glare at the little blonde girl, who stood with a fairly smug expression on her face.

"That hurt, Annie, you asshole!" he yelled, holding his ear as he began rocking back and forth.

She shrugged then looked at me. "Sorry about that."

_At least she has some decency_, I thought, with relief. Nodding, as if it was no big deal, I asked, "Where was he?"

"Where he always is – performing a whiny monologue to an audience of zero." Annie rolled her eyes and, though she was unusually intimidating, I decided that her attitude with my snotty project was admiring and worth replicating in some form. It was clear to me that Eren needed pushing around to get stuff done.

I turned to see if he had anything to say about Annie's words but he was pouting comically, like a child that was refused ice cream, an elbow propped on his table and his chin propped on his fist. His other hand rubbed his ear absentmindedly; his eyes were glazed as they stared at the photograph. I wondered if he had heard us at all.

"You have five minutes," Annie announced, before stalking off, leaving me with a whiny drama king and no right hand assistant. _Great_.

I stood awkwardly, waiting for Eren to get over his strop and let me measure him but he was still staring off into the distance. I didn't even know it was possible for someone to daydream dramatically.

Suddenly, he stilled, eyes wide but no longer on the photo.

"What the _fuck?_" He was on his feet with the stool kicked back, head turning quickly from me to his dressing table and back again. "Who the hell do you think you are?"

"Excuse me?" I almost choked on my words. Eren blinked dazedly at the politeness of my question (blame my upbringing) before his jaw was set and his eyebrows lowered to form a fierce (and pretty impressive) scowl.

"This!" He pointed at the glitter spillage before stabbing his finger in my direction. "You can't just come in here and make a mess!"

"A mess?" I repeated. _Is this kid for real?_ "It's some glitter!"

"That's on my desk!" he screamed back. He turned away to run both his hands through shaggy hair that wasn't too short off a trim. "If Levi saw this, he would kick my ass. He's looking for any excuse to take this spot away from me. Do you _want_ me to live the rest of my life under cramped and poor conditions, with everything dear to me thrown around like some kind of _joke?_"

He was glaring at me again but he expected an answer. I could only shake my head and murmur, "You must be the joke."

"What did you say?"

"You must be the joke!" I shouted. "Now, take your clothes off."

"What?"

I readied the measuring tape as if it was a whip and repeated my words. "Take your damn clothes off so I can measure you then you can cry over your glitter which, by the way, _I didn't spill_."

Eren blinked at that before shaking himself out his daze by pulling the t-shirt he was wearing off his head. He threw it wildly in the direction of his dressing table and it somehow landed on the stool. It would have been cool if he wasn't such a drama queen.

He only spoke once his jeans were around his ankles. "Who spilt it then?"

"Fuck knows!" I threw my hands up in frustration. "Now, shut up. I need to measure you."

As soon as his jeans had joined his shirt, I moved towards him, tape measure ready in my hands and sketchbook open to an empty page placed next to the oh-so important glitter. Most people would lower their gaze or focus on something inanimate when they're stood in their underwear in front of a stranger but Eren Jaeger was obviously something else. His glower was still going strong. It took a lot of strength to be 'professional' and not respond to it similarly.

I couldn't blame him for not being ashamed of his body. There wasn't really a reason to be. Altogether, cute little mama's boy Eren Jaeger had grown to be a good-looking guy. He was tall but still shorter than me, with glossy brown hair that was getting a little too shaggy and the kind of skin that teenager girls risked cancer for. It was unnerving having to focus on him, when there were no clothes to distract myself from the caramel-coloured skin stretched over strong muscles and the spectrum in his eyes. They looked blue and then he turned and they were gold but then he was looking at me and they were the kinda green that resembled the sea.

Then he opened his mouth and all the metaphors were gone, leaving a task that only pressed on and his big mouth.

"So you're going to be designing my costume?" he asked, as if he didn't already know the answer.

"Uh-huh." I started with his shoulders, broad and strong, like the guy belonged on a football field rather than on a stuffy stage. _That attitude of his would get him kicked off any team though_.

"How is that going to work?" If his mouth was as compliant as his body, things would go along much more smoothly. He moved his arms and turned whenever and wherever my hands directed him to but _God, he doesn't shut the hell up_.

"I don't know," I replied honestly, moving back to jot down the measurements I had collected so far. "Ask Levi, after he kicks your ass over some _glitter_."

He made a frustrated whiny noise at the back of his throat. "You don't understand."

"I don't want to either. Arms up." He did as asked and I tried not to press too hard as I measured his side. The last thing I needed was a drama kid claiming I was feeling him up.

Not that it wasn't worth feeling because Eren Jaeger had a seriously good body.

What a waste on his poor unfortunate soul and mouth.

"No, I mean," he said, as I dropped down to measure around his thighs, "You clearly can't even dress yourself. How are _you_ going to make me something worth performing in?"

I raised my head slowly, unsure if I even heard correctly. "Come again?"

Eren opened his mouth then shut it again. I could have slapped myself. _Not the best choice of words when you're on your knees in front of a practically naked boy_.

I ducked my head again. "Just let me get your leg measurements, fucking hell."

Nothing was that simple, of course. He could only be quiet between the time of me measuring up his lower half and writing it down. "You look like a tree."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me." The challenge in his voice was far too enthusiastic. "Your outfit doesn't even match."

I looked down at my proudly picked shirt-jumper-trousers combo then back at the smug kid. _Oh, hell no. There is no way I'm letting a piece of drama shit tell me – a fashion designer – how to dress myself_.

"How does it not match?" I demanded, pulling at the fabric of my jumper. "This is deep forest hue."

He snorted. "You've got to be kidding me. Deep forest hue?"

"_What?_" I moved to measure his waist, possibly digging the tape a little harder than necessary.

"It's fucking green, you pretentious fuck!" he hissed.

It was my turn to snort. "_I'm_ a pretentious fuck? You're a _drama_ student. Pretentious doesn't even cut it, you pompous bastard."

"You wanna go…." Eren started before trailing off, blinking. "Wait, I don't even know your name."

I sighed, deflating. "Jean. Jean Kirschtein."

"Eren Jaeger," he replied, as I used the tape around his waist to pull him closer so I could measure his chest and be done with the whole procedure. Levi had said no questions asked but, if he really did have a vendetta against Eren, maybe it was possible to swap partners. _Let Jessica handle this kid_.

"And another thing! Who wears that colour with _grey plaid_?" _Does this guy ever quit it?_

"What's wrong with grey plaid?"

"What _isn't_ wrong with plaid?"

I raised my eyebrows as I dragged the tape measure across his chest. "Oh, so you've got beef with plaid?"

"I've got beef with your _pants_, that's for sure-"

"Well." We both turned, our breaths coming out heavily in the heat of the argument, to find the dressing room empty except for Annie, who had spoken with her raised eyebrows, and Historia, who stood behind her and was blinking at the entanglement me and Eren Jaeger had gotten ourselves into. "This is homo."

"I'm not homo!" I yelled and, surprisingly, Eren shouted it at the same time. We both turned back to each other, blinked, realised my hands were pressed to his chest and our noses were almost _touching_ and quickly jumped back.

The biggest irony of my life was the fact that I became friends with Eren Jaeger over, 'no homo.'


	2. Chapter 2: Eren

This is in Eren's POV and he's dumb. Jean is also dumb. Dumb boys being dumb. Also Jean has an eyebrow piercing that I had to go back and edit into chapter one but yeah.  
Hope you enjoy the chapter!

* * *

Chapter Two – Eren

Jean Kirschtein was not the sun of my solar system. After he measured my chest and told me to stop puffing it out so much (_"Stop acting like a stuffed turkey,"_) he went back to feeling up mannequins and I cleaned up the glitter mess that he supposedly didn't make. But the glitter changed everything.

I couldn't just let a dirty scoundrel walk around the campus without at least knowing what the hell his agenda was with me and my glitter.

Jean was not the sun. He was Pluto – dismissed in my mind as nothing relevant but constantly coming back with his indignity that he too was part of my full-fledged universe.

I guess you could say I couldn't stop thinking about him.

"Hey, guys." I sat up on my bed abruptly, catching the attention of my roommates. Reiner Braun, a meaty guy with blonde hair and honest-to-God terrifying biceps, paused mid-lift of his weights to glance questioningly at me. Connie Springer was still hitting his guitar with no rhythm or method until I lifted my pillow and threw it at his buzz-cut head.

"Hey!" Connie pulled the pillow off his face to glare at me. "What was that for?"

"I have a question," I announced. Connie leant his chin on the body of his guitar in interest. Reiner put down his weights and leant against his bed frame. I breathed in deeply. "What are your opinions on Pluto as planet?"

Reiner blinked and Connie began bashing his head against his guitar. I groaned and fell back on my bed. "I'm serious!"

"Didn't NASA reject it or whatever?"

"_Rejected, rejected, you just got rejected-_"

I raised myself up to hurl my other pillow at Connie again. He grabbed the neck of his guitar as if it were a sword as I jumped to my feet, palms out like I was back in the karate classes I took for years with Mikasa. "Careful," I murmured to the shorter boy. "You don't want to break your girlfriend."

Connie made a frustrated noise and flopped back down in defeat, cradling his significant other in his arms protectively, as if my words could hurt the beat-up Gibson's feelings.

"You're both losers," Reiner remarked. Connie gave him the finger and I gave him my trademark glare. Annoyingness aside, I'd settled in okay with the other drama student and the music major. It could have been a whole lot worse.

_Yeah, like a fashion student._

Sighing, I said, "Really. Pluto. Give me your thoughts."

I had to give him credit – Reiner actually looked like he was seriously thinking about it. I was expecting something that would explain why I couldn't get the straight guy who wore plaid out of my head when he said, "If Pluto is now considered a smaller planet, does that make us bigger in comparison?"

"Dude, that makes no sense," I grumbled, sitting back down. "Pluto isn't even a planet."

"Bullshit," Connie said confidently. "Propaganda bullshit."

"That doesn't make any sense at all!" Asking either of them a question was similar to that of republicans on news shows. _You never get an answer_.

"NASA just wants us to _believe_ Pluto isn't a planet." Connie's smile was so damn smug for no reason beyond his stupidity. I was deeply saddened by the shift of events that left me without a pillow to fling in his face a third time. _Third time's the charm_. Maybe it would knock him out and I could pull out the strings of his guitar. Maybe I could even use them to give the instrument _a moustache_.

Instead, I just asked, "What kind of crackpot conspiracy theory is that?"

"I bet they found aliens!" His eyes were actually litup. _What have I done?_

"Uh, Connie? You do realise how far away Pluto actually is from us, right?" Reiner injected, with his best 'dad' voice.

Connie probably didn't even hear him. "Fuck that bullshit, man. Pluto is a planet. Pluto is most definitely a planet-"

"That's it." I stood up, grabbing my duffle coat from the bottom of my bed and shrugging it over my hoodie (_hey, it's seriously cold out_) as Reiner shook his head at the air-punching potato we called a roommate.

"Viva la Pluto motherfuckers!"

Reiner replied to that with his pillow. At Connie's face. Hard.

I cheered and high-fived the big guy, trying not to wince when his palm smacked a little too hard onto my much more delicate one. Connie swore colourfully at us both but Reiner laughed, going over to ruffle his bald head. "There, there, little guy. Play your guitar and everything will be better."

"Viva la Pluto by Connieplay," I muttered but they heard it just fine. Reiner sniggered.

"Laugh on, assholes. Laugh on. I'll be the one laughing when I'm famous and everyone wants to get on this." He gestured down at his body sensually, fluttering his eyelashes.

I grinned. "Was that your way of saying no one wants to have sex with you now?"

"Go get fucked, Eren Jaeger."

"At least I can!"

Reiner stepped in between us with his hands on his hips. "Both of you need to stop."

"Yes, _Dad_."

That got Connie a smack on the back of his head. "Shut up and play your guitar."

I figured this was about the right time for me to make my exit. Not that Connie was bad at guitar or anything but-

"Okay," he said, his face serious, "here's Wonderwall."

"Fuck no."

But he was still a major dork.

It was only when I was out of the Maria's dormitory building that I realised I had nowhere to go. The college café would be closed and it wasn't like I could just go sit outside on a bench and _stargaze_ or some shit. I wasn't kidding about the cold. Autumn was springing into winter and I sniffed as I trudged through the dimly lit that connected to the film studio. With nothing else to do, I decided to go grab myself a chocolate bar that I vowed to eat as disgustingly as possible in Connie's face if he so much as strummed an E minor. The café may have been closed but the vending machines were always stocked with stuff that I shouldn't have been eating regularly, if I appreciated the ear my mom would definitely pull if she knew about my dieting habits.

I turned right around the next corner and Pluto fell out of whatever fucked up orbit it was in to crash into me.

I staggered back, swearing as I grabbed my injured shoulder protectively. I should have known it would be Jean Kirschtein. I could practically smell the douche-ness in the air. _Poetic, huh?_

Just as the furrow of my eyebrow deepened into a glare that I hoped portrayed my complete and utter _disgust_ at his existence and this situation, Jean's own glare surfaced those tiny brown eyes of his.

Except it was too dark to see his eyes.

And I did kinda want to see him. I needed to test out this Pluto analogy before I ended up thinking too much and asking _Annie_ her opinion or something equally as horrifying.

Jean's face was flushed as he pulled out his earphones and I opened my mouth to ask him what he was so embarrassed about until I noticed the sheen of sweat layering his pale skin and the fact that he was wearing really short shorts and a vest top with running shoes.

I guess you couldn't see it when he was wearing plaid pants that looked like he'd just robbed an old granddad's charity shop but Jean had disturbingly nice legs. And arms. His arms were nice and defined. Smooth curves with sharp edges. Could you get arms that good from just running? I'd have to ask Armin.

Of course, these thoughts were secondary. Jean's eyebrow stud glinted when it caught any light that it could and his black vest snugged into his chest, which moved visibly as he exhaled heavy breath falls, was not my priority. Those ridiculous shorts in this weather were not at the forefront of my mind. Still, I couldn't help but look down at his legs again, comparing his bareness to my denim-covered form. I didn't even know boys could have legs that _smooth_. And those shorts were so small and tight, could his junk even _breathe_? Or was the whole of Jean Kirschtein struggling to find oxygen?

You'd think that seeing him squeeze into a material so tiny would give me the satisfaction of knowing this glitter-spilling fiend had a tiny friend but alas, the black scrap left little to imagination. Pluto's dick was bigger than its planet self but not his real self. Never his real self.

I mean, how could he not be a complete douchebag? He was wearing little shorts when it was like two degrees out. There was no arguing with this evidence.

I opened my mouth to say something in a constantly practiced sarcastic tone, maybe _fancy some ice cream with that?_ but his glare was too heavy and his pants too tight and I just blurted out something- _anything_ to stop thinking about Jean's dick. "Hey, you don't look like a tree today."

I didn't think he could scowl any harder but he was. "Eren Jaeger."

"Jean Kirschtein."

"You remembered my name?" He blinked at me before bracing his hand against the wall, using the other to fiddle with the lace of one of his shoes.

"Was I not supposed to?" I quipped dryly. "Is there some other purpose for you telling me your name?"

"Yeah, like you forgetting it and forgetting me between the periods of time we have to endure each other's company." Jean rolled his eyes, straightening up again. His height was a couple of inches on mine and it made my glares feel weak so I glared harder. "Now, quit being a smartass and get out of the way."

He didn't wait for me to do that though (not like I would anyway.) He shouldered past, steadily picking up his speed to an easy going run. I understood now why small shorts had to be tight. Any space would mean _jiggling_ instead of jogging. _Good God_.

I shook my head to get rid of the traumatising image and was left with only one thought: _what the hell am I doing, watching Jean Kirschtein's butt as he runs like a fucking pansy?_

I answered that question by breaking into a (manlier) run to catch up with him until we were turning corners past the Rose dormitory side by side. He didn't say a word – he didn't even speed up – but I knew I was bugging him at how easily I was able to keep pace, though the big coat was starting to press into me. Maybe Jean had a good thing going with the shorts.

He stopped abruptly and I never got the chance to compliment his practicality. He looked at me with disgust and maybe I was a little disgusting with my coat making me one hundred times sweatier than I should have been but he really couldn't talk. I saw a bead of sweat slip under the fabric of his vest.

_Actually, he can talk. He even looks good sweaty. This is worse than him being able to work plaid pants. _Plaid pants_, of all things_.

"What the hell is up with you?" he demanded, using the bottom of his vest to wipe at his face. He was pale all over but, sure enough, the muscles on his abdominal made up for him looking the colour of bird shit.

I should have said that out loud – the bird shit part, not the muscles part. Every eye roll he gave me told me very well that he didn't need anything remotely alike to a compliment. The guy probably winked and pointed at himself when passing reflective glass in public.

But instead, I said, "Do you think Pluto deserves to be a planet?"

He stared at me, looking hopelessly confused before frustration made him snap. "I think you're weird as fuck and disturbing my quiet time. Do I have to put on some metal music just to drown out the symphony of your fucking annoying voice?"

"Don't tell me you listen to that trash," I scoffed.

Jean raised his eyebrows, lowering the earphones he was fiddling with. "I would have thought you'd be the metal type."

"I think I have an aversion to music in general – right now, at least. One of my roommates is a music major and plays his guitar like most guys would play their dicks. Late at night when you just want to fucking _sleep_, honest to God."

"Beautiful," Jean said dryly, like it was anything but.

I carried on, throwing my hands up in frustration. "And the other guy listens to bands that claim they make '_real_ music' when it's just some _noise_."

Jean's face asked: _is that really so bad?_ I grinned back at him, a little crazily, and his eyebrows lowered as his face darkened with wariness.

"He showers so it can drown out the sound of him actually playing with his dick."

"Dude." For someone who didn't seem all too ashamed of showing the world his goods in his stupid running outfit, he sure did get uncomfortable at talk about the male anatomy. "Did I _need_ to know that?"

I snorted. "Did I need to experience that?"

Jean was beginning to back away from me like I had something contagious. His eyes practically said it: _stupidity_. The jerk was insulting me without saying a word. Rude.

I had two options: punch him or make him more uncomfortable. And if there was anything my mom hated more than my concerning consumption of sugary goods, it was fights. Plus it would get me kicked out of this place or _worse_ – they wouldn't let me audition. I didn't come to Trost to be a nameless stage hand, that was for sure.

"We're all men here, Kirschtein," I said, with a grin. I reached out to slap my hand on Jean's shoulder (which was still kinda sweaty and gross but his skin was hot and, despite my run, I was getting cold again.) "Buckle up."

Jean looked down at my hand for a long time, as if it was just a disembodied hand resting there. Then he acknowledged the body it was attached to. He looked at me with the usual disgust but there was something else there, as if he just couldn't understand how my hand had suddenly connected to my body again. His analysing gaze made me feel awkward.

Then, with distaste in his low voice and his eyes narrowed on mine, he said, "Don't touch me."

I did as he said, blinking at his hostility, and he rubbed at the skin I had been touching like he was expecting it to have turned green under my fingertips. Then, without a word, he was jogging again.

He only got five paces before he stopped, as if he could feel my eyes on him, to look back. "What?"

"What?" I repeated before I marched over to him, prepared to face a life as the kid who has to move poorly painted props across a stage in the dark. I didn't get the chance to ruin my future because, as soon as I was at his side, he was running again. Maybe he had a schedule for his running. Two minutes break, tops. Getting punched in the face probably disrupted the order in his life. Maybe he just couldn't wait to get away from me.

Personally, I thought it was the schedule.

As soon as I was caught up with him, I snapped, "I'll tell you what! How is that you can strip me down and drool over the perfect curve from my neck to shoulder ratio but I can't give you a friendly pat on the back?"

He didn't answer until he stopped, leaning down to place his hands on his knees. I knew he was catching his breath but it wasn't exactly easy to look anywhere but his butt when he stuck it in the air. It was the shorts, of course. How could he wear boxers under those things anyway?

I grinned at the thought of Jean in knickers – I wouldn't put it past a _fashion_ student – then I stopped grinning because I was thinking about Jean in knickers.

"Isn't it past your bed time, Jaeger?" he asked, as he straightened up.

I was going to say something sarcastic and maybe add in the problematic issue of him wearing shorts that resembled underwear, I swear I was, but with my eyes now able to look at anywhere but the beacon of his butt, I noticed where we were. Sina dormitory. The dorm of rich kids that I would never know because I wasn't a rich kid.

Mom and Dad earned okay wages but it wasn't Sina worthy wages. Mom worked as a nurse at the hospital and Dad worked with artefacts in the local museum. I still had no idea what he actually did with the historical shit he found but hey, it got me to college.

Sina was full of snobby fine art majors who made it their sole objective to be above every other major, with their non-bleached hairs and regular soled shoes. With that said, I had non-bleached hair and regular soled shoes but that was beside the point. No one liked a rich kid. Art college wasn't supposed to be for the rich.

My spacing out didn't help Jean's patience. "Why are you bothering me exactly?"

I shook myself out of my daydream of throwing the props the fine art kids would be painting for us back at them, even when the paint wasn't dry. _Especially_ when the paint wasn't dry.

I shrugged and said, "The music got to me."

"What happened?" Jean tried to sound bored but curiosity resonated in his flippant tone.

"Connie started playing Wonderwall," I said darkly.

Jean blinked. "What's wrong with Wonderwall?"

I couldn't hide my frustration. I even went as far to face palm which hurt a lot more than it looked on TV (_don't do this at home, kids_) and groan, "What is _wrong_ with you?"

Jean yelled back instantly, "What's wrong with _you_?"

"Nothing, you asshole!" Naturally, my body leaned forward to scream at him. Even at this closeness, he didn't smell _terrible_. God damn fashion students. God damn male fashion students. God damn man perfume.

They were all worse than fine art majors and that was saying something.

"I'm an asshole? You're the asshole here, asshole!"

"I am not a fucking asshole-"

"Oi, you stupid fucks!" We both stilled as an unfamiliar voice called from one of the windows. "Take your angry boyfriend drama somewhere else. There's people here tryin' to nap!"

"_We're not gay!_"

The mysterious male voice shouted a sarcastic, "Yeah, right," before slamming his window but me and Jean were too busy blinking at each other to call that guy the actual asshole in this situation.

I found the key idea to my Pluto analogy. I couldn't stop thinking about the glitter-spilling fashion snob because of his reaction to words I had to argue with every day. I was still hanging around Jean Kirschtein because we were the same.

Except he was a pretty big jerk.

Sighing, I stepped back and asked, "You get that a lot, don't you?"

Jean turned away and I guess some part of me expected some kind of deep, broken-hearted monologue – _I tried to confess to my best friend and she set me up with her brother_ – and that expectation could only lead to disappointment with a guy who probably imagined stabbing me to death with knitting needles.

"People yelling at me when I'm out for a run? Nope, not at all. Funnily enough, this is the first time." He turned back to me, feigning thoughtfulness. "I wonder what's so different this time that got me abuse from a random irritated stranger. _Hm_, let me think about that."

"I'm sorry," I said, before he could finish that thought and make me feel even guiltier. I was the one that was following him about and assigning him to a damn planet. I didn't intend for him to get the same judgements as I did everyday but now because of me.

I looked at his tiny shorts and the admittedly _pretty_ angular face and how he wore knitted jumpers and tight plaid pants and majored in _fashion_, for God's sake, and it occurred to me that Jean probably had it worse.

Jean's grimace dropped at the sincerity of my words and he jerked his head away, lifting up to awkwardly scratch the back of his neck. "Don't be. It's not like you're the one that said that shit. And, in answer to your question, yeah, I get it a lot and by a lot, I mean every day."

I wanted to say something because Jean sounded far away, his voice carefully quiet as if he knew the consequence of speaking up. But there was no masking the fact that Jean felt alone.

I said nothing. Eren Jaeger, acting prodigy and drama king, said nothing – not even another two words – to comfort someone who experienced the same abuse as I did. I would always be ashamed of myself for that.

We both stared at the ground, eyes fixed on where a moon beam peaked out around the Sina building to highlight a tiny block of the road. He sighed and added, "What kind of straight man does fashion? Ha." There was no humour in his laughter. Without warning, he turned and started walking.

Towards the entrance of the Sina dorm building.

"Whoa."

He didn't stop walking but he called a simple, "what?" over his shoulder, sounding infinitely less irritated than he had only a few minutes before.

"You live here?"

Jean cleared his throat before shrugging. "Yeah."

"Rich kid? Figures," I muttered.

He turned fully to give me a glare that made me slump slightly with relief. He was okay, back to being a snotty-nosed glitter-spiller. "What's that supposed to mean?"

I faked innocence and sang out a cheery, "Oh, nothing. _Nothing_."

He stood there awkwardly, hand poised for his door but his body angled towards mine. I was still rooted a couple of feet away. He sighed but before he could leave me to go binge on the beers stocking his pastel-coloured mini fridge, I called out, "You not gonna to invite me in?"

Jean didn't look at me for a minute and I wondered if he was thinking about the names we got called on a regular basis. I swallowed nervously.

Then he met my eyes with ones that could only be described as _teasing_. "You forgot to say 'no homo.'"

I tried not to smile, honest to God, I tried. But you don't realise how wrong everything is when something right comes along and Jean joking easily with me, being the same as me, was right.

He must have been thinking the same thing. He bites his bottom lip but it pulls up into a grin anyway.

We had found an understanding. A common ground.

It was a good thing. If I didn't share something with the guy, I would probably completely hate his guts. It hadn't escaped me that he was a fashion student. A _rich_ fashion student. A rich fashion student who wore plaid pants and spilt glitter. He was a disaster.

"Fuck you," I said but I couldn't be serious when containing my grin was beginning to hurt my face. "We're gonna be getting to know each other very well over the next few weeks. You could at least be a little more hospitable."

"I hope your metal head buddy breaks his iPod and has to jack off without music." He leant forward to murmur, "I hope you hear every second of it," before turning back to open the door to the building.

"You know how you asked what kinda straight man does fashion?" I called after him, creeping as close as I could to the enemy territory. "I have an answer."

He didn't even turn around. "I don't care."

"A rich, pretentious dickface, that's who."

Jean answered by slamming the door in my face. I would like to think he was just happy that someone was finally referring to him as straight.

* * *

Levi scared the shit out of me but, after only a week of his lessons back at the start of the year and around one hundred terrible shit jokes later, I decided that indicating that he made my bladder weak would probably make him feel some sort of fucked up happy so I decided it was better to keep quiet.

Or as quiet as I could be, which wasn't very much.

My love for drama didn't have any symbolic meaning really. I was good at it and not good at much else. As an overdramatic kid that was better known for getting into fights than exceling in academic studies, the achievement of getting cast as the lead role in elementary productions stuck with me. It was nice to make my mom proud, I guess. Her cheering me on in the crowd as I played Gabriel is my first ever play was a highlight. If God hated artists then it was his own fault. I was in art college because of that damn nativity play.

I wouldn't deny my embarrassing love for theatre. I loved spotlights and the velvet feel of the curtains. I loved the art and the music and the way the crowd could watch you with such silence intensity that you felt as though they could hear the thrumming of your heart. I loved being part of the theatre – the star of it. Every performance I had been in had been a success (unless you counted the time I was kicked out of my high school's rendition of Joseph and The Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat because I punched the IT guy working on sound for making too many 'your mom' jokes when I was trying to practice, 'Any Dream Will Do.')

And that success wasn't going to change at my new college. Even if my drama teacher made me want to run off stage more than run on it.

As our lessons on facial expressions drew to a close and the class grabbed their bands, feeling traumatised at the sight of seeing Levi express more in a hour than he had probably done throughout the entirety of his life, he cleared his throat and we all stilled.

He was a simple guy, not with many words. "First auditions for the drama department's production will be in two weeks. We're moving this as swiftly as possible. The scripts you'll be using for the auditions are in the film studies room. If there's any confusion with the plot or the shit your character has to say or do, ask Erwin. He's the guy who's not right in the head."

Erwin was the head of film studies and there were plenty of rumours about Levi having a soft spot for the most handsome man in Trost city. It was all typical art college talk but some of your teacher _had_ to be gay around here, right?

Regardless, Levi would have undoubtedly shot any idea down that didn't meet his standards and even Annie had said that even she had got involved once Erwin threw the initial plot at them.

"It's different," Annie had told me when I had bumped into her after I left Sina and Jean to get myself that fateful chocolate bar. It had been three days since then and I hadn't spoken to Jean once, though we exchanged glares if we passed each other in the corridors. "Weird but cool."

"Think I could be the star?" I had teased, even though Annie's deadpan expression made her hard to joke with. Sometimes, I got the impression that she wanted to rip my limbs from my body and use them as weapons or something equally as disturbing. She was just so _damn_ intimidating, even though she was my friend. At least, she seemed to be. She had less words than Levi so she never specified.

But at my words, Annie had almost smiled. "Jaeger, I think the play was written for you. Don't fuck it up."

Then she had left to go fight crime or whatever she did on campus so late and I grabbed an extra chocolate because it was a weird night and I deserved it.

Levi continued with, "Remember you only have two weeks. Once we've watched you all act under such limits, we'll sort out call back auditions for specific characters but, for now, focus on impressing a faculty of teachers that have to sit through fifty of these damn performances. Audition times will be on the noticeboard tonight. Now, get out."

No one argued with his formidable glare. I pulled my backpack strap firmly up my shoulders and set off for the film studies rooms, taking a shortcut to get there before the rest of my class so I could grab the script and go grab a slice of pizza while I studied Erwin's Great Idea beyond glancing at the plot once and thinking: _Erwin Smith needs help_.

Five minutes later, I had the mysterious three page script in my hand and was waiting in the canteen queue behind some graphics students that were talking textures on Photoshop and whether Levi and Erwin were sleeping together. Art college was a wonderful place, obviously.

I was just about the interrupt the strangers by telling them discussing our lecturers' sex lives was creepy and, by the way, it wasn't physically possible for anyone to dominate someone like Erwin Smith, he was a _total_ top when I noticed something far more interesting.

Jean Kirschtein was at the head of the line, paying for his pizza and banana milkshake with an easy-going grin. When the cashier laughed, I felt irritated. Was there some kind of rule that the fashion boys had to be either gay or into older women? Was he really that desperate to prove his heterosexuality that he would flirt with a middle aged woman?

Part of me wanted to interrupt them by yelling to Jean that there was no point. There was no way anyone would think he was remotely hetero in that outfit. White shirt, slim black trousers pulled up with black braces and his pale blue lace up shoes match his pale blue bowtie. His colour coordination personally offended me. His whole existence offended me.

Frustrated at how, even in this ridiculous Doctor Who cosplay, he still didn't look at all bad, I watched as he finished paying (_finally_) and found himself an empty table. He sat with his back to me.

As soon as I grabbed my pizza, avoiding eye contact with Jean's lady friend (who had _wrinkles_, for the love of God), I skidded over to the table he was sat.

Jean looked up slowly, as if he knew he wouldn't like what he would see. He put down his pizza and stared at me for a long time before he greeted me distastefully. "Eren."

I planned to say his name with an equal amount of disgust but instead I said, "You seemed awfully familiar with the cashier."

Jean blinked then shrugged. "Marilyn. Yeah, she used to work for my mom."

_She used to work for his mom. Damn rich kid._

I deflated, all my previous irrational irritation gone as I flopped down on the seat directly opposite to his. Jean winced but didn't protest. He continued eating his pizza and I started mine. I got halfway through it before I spoke between bites. "We got – the script for – the auditions."

Jean didn't say anything about my table manners (which would definitely knock off some of his rich kid points), though he looked pained until my words sparked an obvious curiosity. Obviously, he pretended otherwise. "Did you really have to disturb my lunch time for this?"

I would be lying if I said I didn't like how familiar our bickering was. It felt like no time had passed since I had stared so hard at his junk in tiny shorts that it had given me nightmares.

"You'll want to hear this though," I insisted. "The plot is weird as hell."

"Weirder than you?"

I grinned. "Weird enough for me to star in it."

Jean rolled his eyes as he bit into his pizza. "Let's have it then."

I read out the plot, word for word. "_Monsters. As tall as buildings. They destroy everything, they take everything. They are everything you fear and they are within you. Every body is a vessel for a monster. Every soul is food for them to take. But only if you let them by accepting to darkness, to rage, to revenge._" Jean was listening to every word intently, his eyes on my face, unblinking. I read on. "_But when someone's monster takes your mother's life in front of your eyes, darkness becomes all you know. Your life turns into a battle as you fight against the exact demons that took the one you love the most from you. You must control it. You must fight. You must win_."

As soon as I've said the last line, we're back in the noisy cafeteria, where the only monster is whatever meat they put in the casserole, if you could call _that_ meat.

"Sounds like some weird ass version of Beauty and the Beast," Jean muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

"Without the beauty. They actually haven't put in a love interest." I frowned. "I hope they haven't."

"Why so serious, Jaeger?" Jean gave me his best shit-eating grin. I wanted to shove my pizza in his face. "Never kissed a girl before?"

"That wasn't what I was talking about!" I tried not to blush but hopefully some yelling would cover up the fact that he was kinda totally right. "I meant it wouldn't fit with the storyline."

Jean nodded seriously in agreement at that. "Guess the character is too busy fighting for his soul to care about his dick."

"Or vagina. Anyone could play the main, from what I can gather. Obviously, it'll be my dick on stage for grabs because I'm _so_ gonna be the main character."

This time, Jean was the one to blush. I stared at his pink face – sweat-free, this time – in disbelief. He was actually embarrassed at the mention of a body part and he dared insult me for not having my first kiss. _Wow, he really _is_ a straight boy_.

Jean looked down at his food, as if to distract himself from thoughts about vaginas that I had imposed on him. I smiled a little at the sight of it. He looked like a little kid that just got yelled at from his mother.

"Do you think Erwin was high when he wrote it?" he asked.

I shrugged, realised he couldn't see me because he was having a staring match with his plate, and said, out loud, "Who knows? Who cares? Ideas are ideas."

"It's unrealistic."

I scoffed. "So is the tightness of those pants but you don't hear me complaining."

Jean jerked his head up to scowl at me and I could have cheered at the eye contact. "They're not _that_ tight."

"Yeah, well, compared to your running shorts, I guess they're not."

"Don't you have other tables to terrorise?" he snapped, slamming his palms down on the table to emphasis his point.

I ignored him, flicking through the script. "It looks fantastic, realistic or not. Well, at least this part of it does. So many emotions."

"It's a bunch of dialogue on paper."

"Yeah and fashion is some scrap fabric stuck together." I waved a dismissive hand in his direction and he gave me his deadliest glare.

"Bite your tongue."

"Make me."

Jean responded to this by angrily stuffing more pizza in his mouth.

We sat in silence for a few minutes until I couldn't take it. Silence wasn't my best point. Neither were words really. I had the terrible habit of blurting out first thoughts and that wasn't usually a good idea.

This time was no exception.

"You should come watch."

"Huh?"

I had planned to insult him or say the word vagina again until his boner broke those heinously fitted pants but it was too late. I had given Jean Kirschtein the impression that I was looking for his approval. Which I wasn't. _At all_. He majored in fashion; his approval was like Aquaman to my Superman.

Still, I had to clear my throat before adding, "My audition. Come watch it."

_There_. I gave him no choice. I sounded confident and not nervous at the prospect of him saying no at all.

Jean didn't roll his eyes but nodded once, silent. He wasn't looking at me so I wasn't even sure he had heard me at all. I had to be heard though. I was an actor. What was I without my audience?

"Hey," I said, capturing his attention by locking our eyes together. His were wary. Mine matched my (hopefully) self-assured grin. "Seriously. _I_ will change your life."

Now, Jean rolled his eyes, as he said, "You already have," but he was smiling and I knew that this was his way of saying _yes_. My grin lifted up further, triumphant.

I was going to show Jean Kirschtein what real art was. That's all this was. Really.


End file.
